


A love caught in the pages of a cheap journal

by cezy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Diary/Journal, Falling In Love, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, Rating May Change, Secret Relationship, Shiratorizawa Oikawa, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8413936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cezy/pseuds/cezy
Summary: I recall him looking up from his book and our eyes locked for a second time but, this time, it was special. The moment was special. I was taken aback by the vibrant colour of his eyes, for in the sunlight they seemed golden, although I was later to discover that Tooru’s eyes were in fact as dark as freshly tilled soil, with edges of amber and honeyed hues. He spoke to me, a greeting maybe, because it didn’t register to me for a few seconds as I was troubled by watching him with somewhat ( Written in Ushijima Wakatoshi's 1st person POV, about a love that should have lasted more than a summer. )





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Please take this work as if written by Ushijima himself. I try my best to keep in character and I hope that you enjoy it ! I'll be updating regularly, but please give me your feedback as it is what motivates me the most.

I've hesitated for so long in front of this paper for I did not dare to search into my journal the exact date that I've first met Tooru. I couldn't initially find his name in any of the entries of that year; his name appears much later in another journal, dusted by age and hidden well by a younger me. And if I'm suffering somehow by telling this story, it's because I'm unsure how to recall his visage at that time. I cannot relive my amazement, tumult and uncertainty felt during these first meetings.

I remember, quite vaguely, the first moment I’ve seen him, waiting outside the Sendai Airport while me and his father were talking about the duration of my flight. The moment our eyes locked wasn’t special. There was nothing special about that moment. My description of Tooru is not through rose-tinted glasses and, to be quite honest, aside the minty accent of his perfume, there was nothing about Tooru that caught my attention. I barely remember that first meeting.

At that point, I was situated at the start of my last year of high school, scouted for my volleyball skills by an academy in Sendai which prided themselves in their history of wins and a room full of only first place prizes and medals. Despite my Japanese heritage, I had been raised in America until then so people took interest in this fact and I was often asked to speak in English, with an American accent that I never quite understood what the hype was for. 

My parents had emigrated to the States so that my father could pursue his dream of being a professional volleyball player. Following his death after an unvictorious battle against cancer, I decided to follow in his steps in regards to volleyball. I have been playing the game for as long as I can remember and it constituted everything I lived for at that time. Volleyball was the reason I woke up every day and the reason I went to sleep every night. By the time I was sixteen, my name, Wakatoshi Ushijima, had reached national ( and international ) news outlets.

But fame wasn't my ultimate goal. I wanted to go experience the same things as my father in regards to volleyball and that meant going to Japan, to my parents' hometown, to practice the summer away at the same school my father has made famous - Shiratorizawa Academy. I wanted to live my last year of school playing on that academy's volleyball court, hearing my shoes squeak against the same floor my father played on, inhaling the same mix of sweat and hard work as my father. I'd win and go to the nationals and then I'd be scouted by Tokyo University and I'd spend my four university years playing volleyball professionally. Just like my father. Then I'd return to America. For me, this was my own way coping with my father's death, it was my way of reconnecting with him.

My plans were clear. My mother protested at first, as any mother does before she realises that her baby birds are no longer baby birds, but fully grown eagles ready to leave the nest and conquer the sky. The realisation that I was maturing is probably what made her give in to my wish. She arranged everything. She would not come to Japan though, confessing to me the day before my flight that it would pain her too much to go back to the place her husband and her grew up and fell in love. I respected this fact. I was to live on my own.

I am not a sentimentalist. Leaving America wasn't difficult. As I embraced my mother for the last time and held her while she quietly cried, I could not find it in me to even do as much as shed a tear. My soul was as light as a feather and my mind was clear and set on fulfilling my goal ( as it should have been ).

I left America on 27 February 2002.


	2. ?? March 2002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”  
> ― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Japan is nothing like America. In Japan, conformity is everything. If America is bright and animated with blinding colours and obnoxious people, Japan is dull, a grey cloud seemingly hovering over everyone’s heads. But there was something, a certain thing about exiting the airport and taking in the East-Asian sky that unsettled me, sent my stomach in a show of tumbles. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The first days were a blur. My journal is proof of this, for many of the pages of that month had kanji I didn’t recognise scribbled in every corner despite my commitment to keep my notebook neat, organised. I had pages and pages of random reminders to myself, such as books to check out, people to get in contact with, shops to buy food at. My notebook only regained its precision and cleanliness after a month of my stay in Japan.

Still, these first weeks were, truly, happy for me, because I would leave in the very early hours of the morning for my morning run only to spend the rest of my day in the academy’s gym, spiking volleyballs and working my body into dripping sweat. On the court, I was the leader, because I had built a reputation around my skills long before arriving there. My teammates didn’t get the same attention as me; while the managers supplied me with water and sandwiches, my teammates would bring their own bottles and meals. I didn’t care enough at first about this injustice as my mind was on volleyball, but I enjoyed chatting with my team after practice, because after that I could go write in my notebook about my day.

I enjoyed these weeks of spring holiday. I gave more than my best every day, I was an efficient leader, and there is never going to be anything more delicious than the occasional ice-cream after practice which my team would treat me to after a rough practice.

My first meeting with Tooru, on the day I arrived in Japan, had left my mind for the entirety of that month. His father was the headmaster of the Academy but I never saw Tooru after the day he and his father were there to pick me up from the airport. That, until just a few days before the new school year was to begin on April the 1st. 

I had gone to the academy’s library, thankfully open even during the holiday, piqued to find a book in English. I was still learning kanji, and my knowledge in katakana and hiragana was mediocre at best. I was working on it, but I knew I’d eventually encounter trouble because of my alphabet illiteracy, despite my fluency in the spoken language.

The library did offer a section dedicated to English literature, mainly the classics. Reading isn’t necessarily a hobby of mine, but every once and in a while I like to indulge into a book, with a particular interest in mythology. And as I picked up a poorly cared for version of the Odyssey, a strong fragrance hit me. It’s a very distinct perfume, sharp and minty, but with a citric undertone that was so familiar to me yet at the same time so alien. My head turned in the direction of the smell almost instinctively and there, in the farthest of my left, in the sun that beat through the tall windows sat Tooru, captivated by the book in his hands. Glasses were propped on the bridge of his nose and his lips moved silently ( I found out later that this was just one of his endless habits ).

Tooru seemed to me, then, much more interesting than the first time I’ve met him. It’s terrifying how precise I recall how he looked in that moment, despite not finding any entry of this second meeting in any of my journals. It tugs at my heart when I flip through the pages with somewhat desperation for any trace that could help me evoke Tooru in my mind, yet I find nothing. It’s weird how incapable I was to see future events, to prepare for the changes that will follow. Despite a lack of description in my journals, I still remember the buttoned up shirt he had, white with the sleeves rolled up and displaying a skin so smooth I could swear it’s milk, the bright blue trousers that seemed to complement the green frame of his glasses. His hair was a sea of chocolate curls and his lips resembled rose eclipses. 

He was beautiful.

I recall him looking up from his book and our eyes locked for a second time but, this time, it was special. The moment was special. I was taken aback by the vibrant colour of his eyes, for in the sunlight they seemed golden, although I was later to discover that Tooru’s eyes were in fact as dark as freshly tilled soil, with edges of amber and honeyed hues. He spoke to me, a greeting maybe, because it didn’t register to me for a few seconds as I was troubled by watching him with somewhat curiosity because I couldn’t understand what sort of enigma this soul was hiding in the fluid motions of his fingers, the brightness in his eyes, the softness of his voice. 

“You’re Ushijima, aren’t you?”

My name slipping off such fatal lips was what brought me back to my senses. I don’t remember how I felt after, there’s just a warmth associated with these memories. I do know that I asked him to call me Wakatoshi though, as I wasn’t used to be addressed by my family name. And when he laughed a heavenly chuckle and said my first name with enthusiasm, I decided that I quite liked hearing my name as long as it's rolled off his lips.


	3. 31 March 2002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  "In Japan, I took part in a tea ceremony. You go into a small room, tea is served, and that's it really, except that everything is done with so much ritual and ceremony that a banal daily event is transformed into a moment of communion with the universe."  
> Okakura Kakuzo

The very day before my school year in Japan was to begin, the headmaster invited me to have tea with him. What struck me as a surprise was that the Oikawa house was styled traditionally. In a modern and technologically aware city such as Sendai, I did not expect to see a house that still relied on sliding doors and tatami on the floor, but perhaps that was my perspective as someone raised in the States. The headmaster led me into a room with a hearth built into the floor ( _chashitsu_ , the tea room), and the sliding door was open, revealing a backyard rich in foliage. The minty, citric smell tickled my nose and I realised that Tooru was laying on the backyard terrace, eyes closed and golden rays painted over him. Somehow, my most vivid memories are those of Tooru in the sun, hair a halo around his round face and his skin seeming to glow godly.

_Tooru, get up, we have a guest_ , his father had told him and I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not pleased to find his son in such a position. However, despite drawing annoyance from his father, Tooru rose to his feet with the languidness of a man without a single worry in the world. I remember him stopping me from sitting down on the far back mat and instead asking me to sit on the other side. His voice was dripping honey as he explained to me the tradition behind _Chanoyu_ , or tea ceremony in English. My mother never served traditional tea and my father was too focused on building a career in America to bother with keeping me connected to my heritage’s traditions. Perhaps that’s a blessing, because I got to hear that young god speak to me about the ritual of preparing and serving green tea for minutes while his father prepared the hearth.

That tea ceremony had been full of surprises. I took notes of every step in the making of traditional Japanese tea and if I open my notebook now, I will find the date of the 31st of March 2008 filled with bullet points, each an ingredient or a step into the ritual. I asked many questions. Because my Japanese was at times sluggish and the headmaster and his son would have trouble understanding the meaning behind my words, Tooru assured me that he could he speak English (and later I was to learn that he had, in fact, an incredible bookshelf dedicated to English literature). So when I would ask him a question in English he would smile and respond _yeah, yeah, that’s right_ , in a faux American accent that I found oddly amusing.

Our eyes met at one point while the headmaster was crushing the green tea leaves in a bowl. That glance between us was similar to the one shared in the library a few days prior and for some reasons, I couldn’t look away. No, it wasn’t that I couldn’t look away. I didn’t _want_ to. His eyes held the deepest of secrets and the more I would look into them, the more I would feel like I was being sucked into a black hole.

Because I couldn’t stop looking at him, I decided to look at his father. I asked myself how a man so inexpressive and dull could be the son of a deity whose vibrancy blinded me. Up close, I could see the headmaster’s face better and it dawned upon me at that moment just how unsightly he looked, with the deep wrinkles on his face, the head balding and his eyes a pure black. Despite his appearance, the headmaster had taken me under his right wing and proved to me that he was an intelligent, subtle and just man, dedicated to leading his students and children with wisdom and patience.

As I was looking at him, the door slid open and in the room entered – bringing with her an airy atmosphere of warmth and calm – the headmaster’s wife. Tooru’s mother. She was dressed in a light pink _kimono_ , I remember because I took note of the intricate floral pattern on it, as well as the golden _obi_ that tied around her waist. She had an everlasting smile. I was shocked; I wouldn’t have thought that she was Tooru’s mother, more likely his older sister, as she looked so young, so delicate. It was clear to me in that moment that Tooru inherited his angelic looks and honeyed voice from his mother.

She brought in a plate of _wagashi_ , which is traditional Japanese sweets. I was advised not to eat any until the tea as the sweetness of them will help wash out the bitterness of the tea. Indeed, the tea was bitter. It had a bright green colour and the taste was something I had never tasted until then; a sour experience soon followed by a saccharine wave from the wagashi I had put in my mouth. And then, Tooru was laughing, a bright and crystalline laughter that shot straight through my heart and turned my blood cold with a strange fear, a fear of the emotions that I wasn’t aware I was developing for him at the time. He was shaking with laughter and his father was attempting to cease his amusement with my first reaction to matcha tea by scolding him. I think his mother asked me to serve more wagashi while the commotion was going on.

Looking back on that last day of March, I can’t recall much else. The notebook entry for that day lists the phone number of the man that had trained my father and was about to train me too. As a result, I think the reason the headmaster invited me to his house was to discuss volleyball. I don’t know. That day always reminds me of Tooru’s pearly laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's been a while since I updated this story and I apologise immensely. I've been reading a book called 'Venus as a Boy' and the 1st person POV the book is written is what inspired me to pick up this work again.
> 
> I also apologise for the possible inaccuracies in this work regarding Japanese traditions and customs. You're welcome to give me feedback on it and/or point out my mistakes.


	4. 1 April 2002

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend... I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend...”  
> Neil Gaiman

To my surprise, Tooru was part of the team. In fact, he was the _head setter_ , and Semi Eita whom I had assumed was the head setter was just a reserve. I found this out after classes on the first day of school, when I stepped into the gym and was surprised to see Tooru dressed in the Shiratorizawa volleyball uniform, with an inescapable number ‘2’ on his shirt.

The gym had gone quiet when his eyes met mine. I was about to ask Tooru if he was also part of the volleyball team, but he had lunged at me with an anger I hadn’t considered him to be capable of; his eyes burned with hatred and his fist would have surely left a bruise if it wasn’t for Tendou Satori and Ohira Reon restraining him. They were calling for him to calm down and yet Tooru’s curses at me were louder than all of their voices combined.

I remained stunned by the aggression that was displayed at me by someone I had compared to a god just a day before. I didn’t know what I had done wrong and I asked the others to let Tooru go so that he can explain himself. They reluctantly let him go and I didn’t try to stop Tooru from punching me--- I saw it coming, his fist, but it stopped centimeters from my face just as I expected. Tooru wasn’t going to punch me for real, not now that his anger had been validated and I was willing to listen. He lowered his fist and began talking.

Tooru had suffered a ligament tear in the previous year and was denied from participating in volleyball matches for six months, which explained why he had not shown up to the spring vacation practices. However, what came as a shock to me was that _he_ was chosen to be the Shiratorizawa volleyball team’s captain in his third year, a position I had replaced him in thanks to the fame surrounded to my name and my potential to becoming an ace. To add salt to wound, no one bothered to inform him on that change in positions and he found out that very same day, the day he returned from a six months break from volleyball.

His anger was justified, but I was indifferent to the situation. To me it didn’t matter who the captain was as long as the team as a whole played efficiently and to the best of their abilities. I proposed Tooru that we spoke together to the coach in hopes of him receiving the role as captain, but Tooru reacted strongly against my proposal. At that time, I didn’t realise but now that I think about it, I believe that Tooru was angrier about my lack of engagement with the captain role than with me being appointed captain in his place.

Tooru was a fantastic player through. He had the eyes of a hawk when it came to observing patterns and strategies in the opponents and he had a born talent for coming up with a scheme for success. As a setter, he was always accurate and what I admire most about him is that he always tried to accommodate his teammates: each of us had a personalised toss; he knew the height we preferred, the strength we were going to hit the ball with, our dominant hands and, most importantly, he could almost magically adjust the timing of the volleyball. Even now, years later, I still shiver with frenzy when I think about his setting skills. What I want most is to have him toss to me one more time.

I wasn’t in the same class as Tooru. He was in class six while I was in class three, a stark contrast between our academic successes. It took me a while to grasp the concept, but in Japan, students are placed in classes according to their exam results. As such, class one consists of the lowest ranking students while class six is the highest-ranking class whose students often snatch a place in the top universities in Japan. My grades hadn’t been amazing in the States; I had always been more focused on the practicality behind the things I was taught in school and rarely bothered with the theory. I failed at creative writing and literature, which may seem ironic since I am currently writing this book. A student that had to resit creative writing numerous times should be the most unlikely one to write a book.

In school, people knew who I was. They would come up to me and ask me about my father, about volleyball, about my hobbies and I would answer to each of them even if I was already asked the same question by other people that day. This patience of mine with humans is something that Tooru called me irritating for one day. After answering the same question of “Were you born in America?” Tooru had asked me how I hadn’t gotten bored of hearing the same thing repeatedly.

For me, I just didn’t see the reason to get annoyed at people for asking a common question, whether the answer could easily be obtained from other sources. As a child, I rarely had questions and not even things on such a grand scale such as the origins of the universe piqued my interest enough to ask. I remember the happiness my father showed when I asked him what a middle blocker is.

Tooru was the complete opposite of me. He always asked questions; stupid questions, smart questions, personal questions, anything. He was like a sponge ready to absorb any information given to him and even when his head was to explode with so much knowledge, he would still crave more and more. His brain was a beautiful amalgam of synapses and, even though our methods of thinking were so different, I enjoyed listening to him go on a spree about groundbreaking discoveries in science

He had a strange affinity for astronomy. I never understood it. He would tell me about quantum physics and the many theories scientists have about the origins of the universe and the existence of life beyond our solar system. When he would show me constellations on the night sky, I would squint and try my best to make out the shapes corresponding to their names. _Tooru, there is no Eagle on the sky._ I would say and, frustrated, he would rub his forehead and say that I am unimaginative.

It wasn’t until a hot summer night of July that I finally realised why the stars were so beautiful to him, but that was only because he made me see stars in the back of his father’s car that he ‘asked’ to take for a drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry for that sudden change of subject in the middle of this chapter. They were supposed to be two different chapters, but I was worried about continuity and word count. Personally, I never liked extremely short chapters in a book/fic so I am trying to write longer chapters.


End file.
